FINALE comes to thoughtful night's superb

Slow symphony, not meant for mortal ears ;

(These can but sense sea-sighings, listeners' tears,

The whispered undertones of tree and herb,

Plaudits of frog, brief scufflings that disturb.)

From sky-vast score sheet graven by the years

Slowly each jewelled star-note disappears,

Darkened by light which longer will not curb

Long gathering eagerness to limn the red

And golden dado over eastern sea ;

Then—heralding noon's opening far ahead—

Peeps up a crimson tip of peony.

Young day, a well-knit youth, swings up the skies,

Known by soft voice, slow smile and level eyes.